


Comfort

by MooseKababs



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Murder husbands being soft, References to Torture/Interrogation, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseKababs/pseuds/MooseKababs
Summary: The Decepticons have a streak of good fortune, but Scrapper's frame didn't get that memo. Hook isn't having it, and is determined to settle his leader down for a little R&R.  ||A commission forPlugs!





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Plugs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plugs/gifts).



> This was a commission done for [ Plugs! ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plugs/pseuds/Plugs) Big thanks for commissioning me, and I hope you enjoy!! 💕

“What's got you so worked up?”

Hook’s question— his  _ voice—  _ was unexpected. Scrapper startled and dropped his stylus, watching as it rolled cheekily down the sloped face of his drafting table and clattered to the floor below. The sound was barely audible over the rhythmic tapping of his bucket against his back.  He turned on his stool and bent to collect the implement, prompting an impatient sigh from the crane. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He answered finally, fumbling to wrap his digits around the thin trunk of the pen. It wasn’t  _ exactly  _ a lie, because it wasn’t rare for him to be annoyed with something he was working on, and as far as Hook knew there was nothing wrong otherwise.

“You’re  _ upset.” _ Hook insisted, making a soft noise with whatever he was working on— probably packing whatever tools he’d used back into his medkit, knowing him. Scrapper tried to put it out of his mind, staring down at what was  _ supposed  _ to be a blueprint on his datapad. Unfortunately, the silence didn’t seem to make any difference in his productivity levels, even after Hook stopped making work noises behind him. 

The rhythm of design— the particular cadence of  _ creation  _ simply wasn’t coming to him, smelt his luck. The stiffness in his servos wasn’t helping him concentrate, either; his mind was wandering in a way that was almost as painful in it’s frustration.

“What are you working on?” Hook broke the silence to ask, very nearly causing Scrapper to lose his tenuous grip on his tool again. He leered down at the awkward streak of digital ink his pen had left, then undid with a quiet grumble.

“I’m trying to come up with something useful to make out of that Autobot once Vortex is done with him.”  Scrapper explained distractedly. Hook shifted behind him and came closer, looking down over the loader’s shoulder to peer at what he was working on.

“Why haven’t you got more done?” Hook asked slowly, almost confusedly. Scrapper shrugged and bit back the urge to wince as a throb of pain washed through his superstructure. 

“I just started.” He fibbed, “I had to fix that welding torch Bonecrusher busted last weekend.” 

“Scrapper,” the crane began, that same strange hesitance still in his voice, “You fixed that  _ before  _ today’s mission. Long Haul  _ used  _ that torch in front of you.”

Scrapper froze for a split second, frantically trying to think up some way to avoid being called out on his mistake. “No, not  _ that one,  _ the other one.”

“Ah, yes. The  _ other one.”   _ Hook (amazingly) agreed with all certainty, as if Scrapper had just said something completely reasonable. 

They slowly descended into silence again, and this time it was a decidedly less awkward thing. Hook lingered behind him, but Scrapper did his best to ignore it; Hook could be unpredictable even on his best days, and it was not unheard of for the crane to take interest in the activities of the others when he was in a good mood.  

They had just won a major battle— bugged the Autobot base, made off with enough energon from a solar farm to keep the whole Victory well fed for an Earth-month, and captured not one but  _ two  _ Autobot soldiers. None of the Decepticons had been seriously injured, and Megatron was pleased. If Hook was in a good mood, there was at least good reason for it!

Which made Scrapper curious, as he tried to sketch out a diagram with as little movement in his wrist as possible, why part of his processor was insisting he’d just royally fragged up.  He tried to ignore it as best he could. Hook wasn’t one to let a problem he had fester, and if he hadn’t said anything yet there was a good chance he wouldn’t. 

Unless he was going to  _ do  _ something about it.

Hook’s hand appeared in his peripheral vision just as the thought crossed his mind, reaching past him and flicking the power switch on the engineer’s datapad. For a second, all Scrapper could do was gawk at the black screen that reflected his shocked expression back at him, before he turned and looked at Hook with incredulity.

“You are  _ frustratingly  _ stubborn.” Hook opined before Scrapper could get anything across his vocalizer, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not to mention  _ transparent.” _

“What are you  _ talking about!”  _ Scrapper demanded, slapping his stylus down above his datapad. It rolled down the table and hit the floor,  _ again,  _ but he was too busy mourning the loss of what small design he had eked out and hiding the stabbing sensation that coursed up his arm as he did. “What crawled up your  _ aft,  _ Hook?!”

“Maybe it was the welding torch!” Hook barked back, “You know the one. No, not the one you fixed this morning, the  _ other  _ one— that one we  _ don’t have?” _

Very suddenly, Scrapper became aware of his error. “Uh, did I say  _ welding torch…?” _

Hook’s expression was unamused. “Will you tell me what it is that’s got you all  _ worked up  _ now?”

“It’s nothing,” Scrapper demurred, attempting not to sound desperate as he held  up his servos with his fingers spread, despite it making him acutely aware of the ache they harbored. “Just having trouble concentrating.”

“And trouble writing, trouble moving, trouble keeping your bucket under control. What else are you having trouble with?” Hook demanded, his voice every bit as cross as his face.  Scrapper looked down, cowed, just in time to miss it as the crane’s expression softened. “You can ask for help, Scrapper. You don’t have to hide it when you’re hurting.”

“... I’m sorry,” The loader said, pooling his hands in his lap. “I didn’t want to be the  _ only one  _ who came home limping today. When’s the last time you got to go a day without fixing someone?”

“It’s hardly a burden to take care of you, dear. It isn’t as if this is a result of you doing something foolish.” Hook reasoned with a frown. After a moment, he held his servo out to the other mech. “Come on, then. Let's get you taken care of.”   
  


* * *

 

Thanks to Hook’s presence, the trip back to their quarters was not the excruciating ordeal it could have been. They had a natural comfort with one another, after having been together so long, and so it was easy for Hook to support Scrapper the way he needed to be supported in order to walk. 

It was a nice change of pace to not have to shamble along the hall by himself for once, all because he was too worried about asking for help.

It was also probably a good thing that their berth was so close to the door as well, because the moment his aft hit the cushioned top, he suddenly became aware of just how much he was actually hurting. He twisted onto his side and lowered himself down with a groan as his frame began to relax. Hook lifted his legs onto the bed and gently pushed him further toward the far side.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the crane said as he turned and began to skirt the end of the bed, heading for the pile of pillows and thermal tarps Mixmaster had kicked off into the floor. Scrapper watched as the medic sorted through it studiously, picking out a few cylindrical pillows before climbing up onto the berth himself. 

“Lift your head,” The medic said softly, not quite a request but lacking the firmness of a true command. Scrapper did as he was asked, tilting his helm up long enough for Hook to slide one of the pillows under his neck and helm. The second pillow was tucked between his arms, and the third between his legs. 

It wasn’t so hard to admit that there was some immediate relief in just relaxing. 

Hook slid off the bed and strode across the room with the same surety that he moved about the medbay, stopping at the improvised cool compartment tucked into the far corner to gather a few cold gel packs before turning and heading back. 

“What hurts?” Hook asked as he came to a stop by the side of the bed Scrapper was closer to. Reluctantly, Scrapper began to list off the places that ached him the most, and Hook diligently applied the compresses there without hesitation, until he reached the loader’s knee.

“What’s wrong?” Scrapper asked, picking up his helm and looking at Hook down the length of his chassis. Hook tilted his helm and tapped gently at the silvery poleyn that protected the loader’s knee joint. 

“It looks like this is off track, which would explain it hurting you.” He offered, setting the last ice pack aside. “I’ll have to realign it.”

Scrapper sighed, but didn’t resist as Hook gathered his leg in his servos and began to gently stretch the relevant components. It was a hypnotic  sort of movement, a gentle wave-like swaying of his leg that was easy to catch himself up in. The medic’s hands worked deftly, his touch just a tad more gentle than he would afford to anyone outside of the gestalt, and it made Scrapper feel relief despite the misalignment. 

He was so entranced by the repetitiveness of the stretch that he barely stirred from his comfortable stupor when Hook grabbed him by the toeplate and shoved upward, shifting the components of the loader’s knee back into place. 

Scrapper turned his face into the pillow below him and  _ groaned  _ as Hook straightened his leg back out, tucked the ice pack under his knee guard and then sat back on his haunches.

“Anything else?” Hook asked, setting his servo on the tire that adorned the side of his leader’s leg. The loader looked vaguely uncertain, prompting a gentle admonishment in the form of his name from Hook.

“My toe plates,” Scrapper sighed, lifting his head again. “They started bothering me last night and it’s just gotten worse since then.”

Hook nodded and shuffled back down off the berth without argument, walking to his desk along the back wall and unlocking a drawer long enough to withdraw a vial from within. He transformed a digit and slotted the vial into a compartment on his wrist as he returned, sliding himself back up onto the bed and taking Scrapper’s pede in his spare servo.

“Hey, are you sure?” Scrapper asked with a slight sense of alarm, “It’s not that—”

“Not that bad?” Hook finished for him archly, quirking an optical ridge at him. “Are we supposed to wait until it’s so bad you can’t walk at all,  _ again _ ? Let me take  _ care  _ of you, you stubborn old Capricon!”

The engineer looked away and huffed. “Yes,  _ sir.” _

Hook would swear that the upward tilt Scrapper may have spotted at the corners of his mouth was nothing more than a trick of the light.

This whole procedure was old hat to them; almost as long as they had known each other, the medic had been administering shots of nanite gel to various joints across the loader’s frame to relieve his aches. The thin mesh membranes that sat between the plates of Scrappers joints were notorious for swelling with energon, stiffening the joint up and causing a terrible sort of searing, grinding pain. 

The crane was accustomed enough to the procedure that he was, more than likely, one of the best mechs left alive capable of doing the procedure. Scrapper barely felt the needle enter into the joint that allowed his pede to flex, only barely aware of its presence until Hook began to ease the gel into the already tight space.

The medic shushed him soothingly as he hissed, slipping the needle out and then back in at the second membrane to do it again, the thumb of his free hand rubbing a soothing pattern over where he had pulled the needle from a moment before.

The first was always the worst for Scrapper— probably because of the anticipation. The other three injections went much faster, leaving him with a burgeoning sense of relief as the nanites began to soothe away the inflammation that had made it so hard to walk.  Hook rubbed at the joints for perhaps a moment longer than would have been proper had it been anyone else, then stretched forward to tuck an icepack back in place. 

“You should feel better soon,” He assured, standing up and skirting around the bed once more to settle himself at the head of it, within Scrapper’s line of site.  “Try to rest.”

Scrapper made a noncommittal, humming sort of noise. He was already dosing, suddenly exhausted by both the events of the day and the unexpected relief from his pain. The quiet, familiar purr of Hook’s systems nearby was another comfort that tugged him down towards a full power down— and for once, he was reluctant to ignore his systems. 

* * *

He stirred some time later, just as Hook slid off the bed silently. He picked up his head and reset his visor in an attempt to clear it from the fuzz that was a common symptom of mid-recharge systems.

“Hook?” He asked blearily, “What’s wrong?”

Hook planted a knee on the edge of the berth and leaned forward, readjusting the cold pack against Scrapper’s shoulder. “Nothing is wrong, Scrapper. I’m just going to make sure the others aren’t making a fool out of themselves at the party. Go back to recharge, I’ll be back shortly.”

Scrapper’s visor blinked again but he obeyed, setting his helm down against the pillow tiredly. He listened to Hooks footsteps as they rounded the end of the bed and headed toward the door.

“Hook?” He called, knowing better than to roll over to check and see if the other was there. Hook made an inquisitive noise as he palmed the access panel, so Scrapper continued. “Thank you.”

The loader didn’t have to  _ look _ to see the smile on his second’s faceplates. 

“Of course, dear.”


End file.
